


A Growing Obsession

by TiggyMalvern



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, One_Stringed_Melody, Pining, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 12:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15774522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiggyMalvern/pseuds/TiggyMalvern
Summary: Four times Hannibal Lecter didn't masturbate, and one time he did.





	A Growing Obsession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crystalusagi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalusagi/gifts).



> Written in two days, not beta'd due to the time constraints of the challenge (which I'm still a day late for anyway). If you find any typos or other errors, let me know (@tiggymalvern on tumblr, tiggymalvern at gmail). I'll likely keep tweaking it over the next few days, because that's what I'm like.
> 
> Yes, I do know the title is so painful it should be taken out back and shot. See also written in two days, and all my brain would give me was bad puns...
> 
> Thank you to Radio Silence for the challenge :-)
> 
> This can be read as a prequel/companion piece to [Out of the Depths](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8030695/chapters/18389827) if you want to. Or it could be something else entirely.

He closes the door at the end of the hour and Will Graham is gone.

“I liked killing Garret Jacob Hobbs.” Will Graham is gone, but his statement lingers, vibrating through all the molecules of air sealed inside the room. 

“I liked killing Garret Jacob Hobbs.” Hannibal’s eyelids drift shut as he relaxes back into his chair, his memory filling with the fervour of it; the sharply whispered delight beneath the immediate fear of rejection, the fierce intensity of Will’s stare, no avoiding eye contact when he declared his truth.

Hannibal allows himself to slide further back, to Hobbs’ kitchen, to Will with a scattered trail of blood across his face and neck and collar, the body of the man he killed slumped against the cupboards only feet away. A work of art perfected by imperfection, his inner violence made real and exposed for the world to treasure.

Hannibal has spent a lifetime seeing beauty where others do not, and Will’s fort is more than mere walls; it is labyrinthine passageways and a black lake plunging to endless depths beneath a lightly rippled surface. He tips his head to rest against the leather, contemplates weaving a path through the maze to find and erode the dam containing the flood.

His attraction to Will isn’t purely intellectual. His cock stirs and swells with the images as he roams his mental corridors, the anatomical reaction unsurprising to a man so self-aware. Beneath the layers of dog hair and ill-fitting clothing, Will has a slenderly muscular physique, a body honed by labour and use rather than hours lifting weights at the gym, and Hannibal approves of the distinction. Will’s allure cannot be ignored, but physical desire is a minor irrelevance next to the challenge of releasing Will’s thrumming potential.

Hannibal’s fingers wrap around the soft curve of the chair arm, his erection half-full and unattended while he luxuriates in the detailed hallways of his mind.

******

The office is empty, at last, quiet settling into the floorboards and the spaces between the books.

The paramedics, the police, the FBI and the forensics teams have all departed, taking the bodies along with them. The scents will need considerably longer to disperse – the blood, the urine and faecal matter, the rich metallic overlay of adrenaline and fear.

Hannibal sits at his desk, pain throbbing deep in his thigh and wrist with each beat of his pulse, every surge of blood beneath the dressings a stinging reminder of mortality, and of life. 

His own mortality is not at the forefront of his mind.

_Will._

For almost an hour he had thought him dead, believed Will forever removed from his world, all chance of friendship, succour and shared understanding snatched away. And then Will had walked in, astute, observant, absorbing the cruelty and savagery and intent in his surroundings before seating himself on Hannibal’s desk in quiet peace. 

Will looked upon Hannibal’s rawest self and smiled. 

Hannibal contemplates that smile again now – the curve of his lips, the dimple etched into his cheek beneath the stubble, the dip of his lashes. The salt-heavy musk of his sweat beneath his clothes, an olfactory concerto of exertion and fever…

Hannibal had believed himself in too much pain to be capable of mustering an erection. Apparently he was mistaken. The blood pumps fiercely below his waist for more than the healing of wounds.

His torso is bruised from kicks and falls and his head thumps with the dull ache of trauma. Will’s survival has provoked his arousal, but Hannibal doesn’t feel sufficiently motivated in this moment to encourage and complete it.

He looks upon the chaos of his immaculately organised world, gathers close his laptop and his phone and makes the first call of what will become many.

******

Will’s head tips back, stretching and tightening the lines of his neck. His lips part wide to accept the ortolan in its entirety, closing again at his fingertips; his jaw begins to work, the crunch of bones audible over the gentle flow of the piano.

Will lowers his chin then raises his eyes to meet Hannibal’s, watching with equal intensity as Hannibal inserts his own morsel. 

Hannibal closes his lids to fully appreciate the flavours, the sacrifice of the bird to this experience. When he opens them again, it is to see Will’s throat bob as he swallows, head tilted in contemplation.

Will is David incarnate – a living masterpiece forever poised on the edge of violence, an artwork who speaks of murder, knowing his choice to kill is righteous and just. 

Hannibal hasn’t been truly flaccid since Will arrived, the woollen overcoat sliding from Will’s shoulders into his own hands, damp with clinging raindrops. Now… now he shifts in his chair, adjusting himself to accommodate the change before he stands to pour another glass of wine. 

He is not alone. He can smell Will’s arousal too, mixed beneath the new cologne that accompanies the tasteful clothing. The base and middle notes are woody, layered with bergamot, nutmeg and yuzu. It speaks of a timeless freedom and individuality, entirely suited to the unique creature it adorns.

Hannibal would change nothing about this evening, and when Will leaves – when Will leaves, it only feels natural.

Their time is not quite yet. Hannibal feels its approach, the tension ratcheting tighter between them, clicking another notch in the cog with each visit, each shared bite of meat and words.

Anticipation only heightens the delight; a meal prepared over many days tastes brighter and deeper for the patience involved in its creation.

He looks down at the table, at the scattered ruins of their feast, and he takes a breath, pressing a hand to the cloth below his belt, to the taut swell of his own flesh.

It won’t be enough. 

He can wait until it is. He’s so close now, so close to having everything of Will, the two of them bound together irrevocably in desire and deeds.

He takes the plates to the kitchen, stacking the dishwasher and filling the basin with warm, soapy suds. He cleans the delicate china by hand, rinsing it and placing it to dry piece by piece, and his erection subsides naturally as he works.

******

The door closes and the footsteps fade.

The scent lingers through the cell, carried on the currents of air conditioning. Hannibal considers asking for it to be switched off, to slow the air’s dispersal, but now is not the moment to squander his carefully hoarded favours with Alana. 

Will came. He finally came.

Hannibal knew he would. He knows Will, knows what he needs, and he chose his incarceration with total certainty. Hannibal needed only to wait.

He waited.

He waited for over three years. 

Despite everything he knew, it was impossible not to doubt. Impossible not to lie awake in the night and wonder if maybe he would wait forever, half a soul existing in less than half a life.

Will came.

Hannibal lies back onto his spartan mattress, closes his eyes and inhales, slow and savouring; his mind conjures images of a house, rustic, surrounded by towering evergreens, Will winding between their trunks with his milling dogs. There are other notes, the cheap aftershave dragging in a child to wander at his heels, a hint of lavender that conjures up a woman, practical and mothering, pretty enough in an outdoors way that wouldn’t immediately turn heads and attract undue attention.

Their intrusion into his vision is unimportant. Hannibal knows Will, knows what he needs, and he will find it in no peaceful backwater. 

Will came here seeking. The more he sees, the more he will want. He won’t turn back.

Will has changed little through the years – a slight lengthening of the hair at his nape, marginally deeper lines edging his eyes. A compromise in his clothing now; not so defined in style as when he sought and broke Hannibal’s trust, more tasteful and appropriately fitted than anything he wore when they first met.

His mind hasn’t changed at all. He builds forts as fiercely as ever, wields his tongue as his sharpest weapon, stares Hannibal down in resentful independence and harrowing need.

He yearns for Hannibal, for their shared potential, with that years-old fervour. Only his desire to resist its pull is waning.

Oh.

Hannibal notes the flow of blood to his groin with mild surprise. He is older now; his physiological erections are less frequent than they once were, and there is little to stimulate a man of his tastes in an isolation cell at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. 

While Will was present, his over-riding emotion was the rush of relief, that his wait was over, that he was right to trust, that his freedom was close. His need to see, to study, to define and retain every detail of Will suppressed any simple response of his body.

Now Will is gone, and Hannibal has the beguilingly fresh memory of his eyes, his intensity, tangled in with the vivid scent of him, and he wants him back. He wants Will, everything of Will, as he always wanted him – he wants his mind and his love, his acceptance and his violence, he wants him close and physical, wants him touching and seeking and sharing and giving…

His mind feeds him Will through all of his moods, tender and smiling, scathing and demanding, possessive and frantic, and Hannibal’s erection is full and hard, his flesh pressed tight against the cheap cotton that forms his undergarments, damp now where his pre-come is leaking. 

The cameras sweep his cell, day and night, his infra-red outline swirling orange-green before his watching guards when there are no lights. 

Hannibal clenches his fists at his sides and remains still.

He has waited three years. He can wait now for the rest.

******

Hannibal breathes.

This would rarely be something to trigger an internal remark, but little is to be taken for granted over the last few weeks. 

He breathes and he is conscious of breathing, because nothing he does is without pain. 

The mattress beneath him is acceptable, not ideal, but during his years of incarceration he has learned to tolerate many inconveniences. 

He lies on his back. The bullet wound is sore, but less so than the exit wound in his stomach, and he can’t sleep on the ribs he fractured when he fell.

Chiyoh has no formal medical training, but she has keen observational skills, formidable hand-eye coordination, and she only ever needs to be told anything once. Hannibal is healing predictably, but it takes time. 

Time when he has little else to do but reminisce. And only one subject worthy of his contemplation. One subject worthy of his time, of his life.

Chiyoh takes care of the practicalities. Hannibal devotes his days to Will.

Will, who came to him after rejecting him for years. Will, who spoke with him as an intellectual and an ally instead of a specimen. Will, whose eyes searched and ached through the glass. Will, who returned to him in anger and pain and undeniable need.

Will, who orchestrated his freedom, as Hannibal had always anticipated.

The moment when Hannibal stripped away the mask and restraints to feel the chill of the air and the light kiss of rain is ingrained into his skin. And Will watched and joined him at his invitation, trusting Hannibal to follow his plan, to stay and play his part for the Dragon.

Will’s eyes when Hannibal opened the door of the car for him; eyes that questioned and wavered and ultimately committed. 

In a lifetime of cultivating memories, implanting them deep within the mansion of his mind, that moment is so far beyond precious that it lives in the Amber Room of the Catherine Palace. The tangle of Will’s curls, the unblinking stare, the careful movements of his bruised limbs as he climbed in beside him. The skilled workings of his fingers as he disconnected the car’s tracker before turning to Hannibal to ask, “Where now?” Will glows in the golden light, reflected a thousand times by the mirrors and candles that line the room holding his image.

The growth of Hannibal’s erection is both unexpected and not. The return of sexual function was to be anticipated at this stage of his recovery, and the trigger for it could be easily guessed.

Hannibal hasn’t touched himself in years. He’s not wholly averse to exhibitionism, but it will always be of his own choosing, not for the entertainment of poorly paid guards.

His hand slides beneath the cloth at his waist, a simple movement with these clothes he wears, designed for easy removal by an injured man. The skin of his palm is cool against himself, the flush of blood heated at his groin. The rhythm of his hand is automatic, starting slow and building; the ache of his healing ribs keeps it leisurely, but prolonged chastity has left him sensitive, responsive, and it won’t take much. He thinks of Will, bloodied and feral, charging at a killer to slit him across the belly, and Hannibal’s breath heaves, his cock leaping heavy within his grip.

His hand halts as he nears climax, clamping beneath the head to prevent emission.

Will recognised the truth, accepted them as they were destined to be, and then he threw them both from the cliff. 

There’s no point to Hannibal’s years of waiting. There never has been.

Will had denied his desires for forty years. It was folly for Hannibal to imagine he could ever stop.

Hannibal’s fingers shiver around his own flesh, his erection twitching within his grip. 

Will denied himself unrelentingly, all his life. Hannibal won’t mirror his mistake.

He will have Will Graham in the only way he ever can. 

Hannibal closes his eyes and Will smiles at him beneath the Primavera, battered and beautiful and joyous. Hannibal’s hand strokes the length of his shaft, foreskin sliding easily within his grip. 

Will walks beside him in the courtyard of the Uffizi, a predator relaxed and poised to strike, and Hannibal’s fingers rub and twist across the head of his penis, smearing fluid that isn’t blood.

Will’s eyes meet his without a barrier, leaning close to raise eyebrows and dip lashes, asking, “Please?” Hannibal shifts his grip, fingers pressing light over the vein, brushing the ridge below the glans with each twist of his wrist.

Will drops his forehead to Hannibal’s chest and gathers him close, his cheek turning to rest against him; Hannibal’s hand quickens, his lips parting to suck in breath, to press a kiss into Will’s hair. 

“It’s beautiful,” Will whispers, staring up at him wrecked and rapturous and wild, and Hannibal comes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @tiggymalvern on tumblr and I rarely bite.
> 
> If anyone likes this brief little thing enough to tell their friends, [there's a tumblr post here you can reblog.](https://tiggymalvern.tumblr.com/post/177310098169/a-growing-obsession-tiggymalvern-hannibal-tv)
> 
> For anyone as detail-oriented as I am, Will's season two cologne is L'Eau d'Issey Pour Homme by Issey Miyake.


End file.
